Like many car lovers, I sometimes spend my free time perusing sale listings of cars I dream about. Now days, most dealers photograph every inch of a supercar revealing many details that the public haven’t been privileged enough to see. Naturally, when I came across Ferrari of South Bay’s listing for an Azzurro California 575 Superamerica, I fell madly in love again. When I first started out photographing cars, I often visited Ferrari of Fort Lauderdale (at the time called Shelton). One day I happened to visit when they received a beautiful 575 Superamerica and were loading it up on a truck. The driver explained that the owner preferred all his Ferrari and Maserati to be in this colour. He was also kind enough to demonstrate the roof flip for me. Good memories. Seeing the listing for such a rare Ferrari in one of my all-time favourite colours reminded me of a short story I wrote a few years back for Tumblr.
Nobody walks like you do. Your tempo strolls the very fine line between arrogant and confident. Unequivocally authoritative. You have your own staccato beat manufactured by the unexpectedly satisfying hollow echo of those black Berluti wingtips. They’re such a classic design with their slick marriage of both polished and perforated sections of leather.
Sometimes, I wonder if you think of my supple skin when your hands wash up over their surface. Do I ever enter your thoughts when your fingers are wrapping around those laces to cinch them tight? Are the knots I massage out of you as tight as the ones securing the handmade Italian footwear to your feet? Do you ever envision me bound in an intricate web of ligatures that you’ve crafted and from which only you can release me? Ti penso ogni giorno.
That isn’t what turns you on though, is it? You have a fetish for the danger and risk that comes with involving yourself with me. You will always be the one pushed back into your seat, held there, kept there as the harness across your chest constricts during our trysts. You, not me. We both know that I am your greatest weakness. Not your money. Not your power. You live to indulge me. And I’m so spoiled because of it.
The only accompaniment to your rhythm is the metallic clink from the twirling of a key ring. On that gold hoop, as it rotates over your pointer to strike against your palm, are the keys to freedom. Yours and mine, both. I secretly love that sound. The longer the pause in between the jingling the deeper in thought I know you are. It’s been a hard day hasn’t it, amore mio? Let me tug you free so you can be in the present with me. Yield to me like you always do. Isn’t that part of why you keep me? To have someone to surrender to?
And no matter how many times you say this was our last rendezvous, you will return to me. Quietly, I will listen to your exasperated ramblings of how wrong we are for carrying on the way that we do. Patiently, I will play along with the charade until you finally sigh and look over to me. Just like always, your resolve will melt and our relazione will continue. I know I’m not the one you go home to, even though deep down you wish that I was. But despite the fact I have you only for a small percentage of your time, you value it far more than the droll hours you spend with her. She is rather pedestrian after all. Beige never suited me.
Every echo I can feel from a hundred feet away as I rest there all alone and on my own in such a cold and incommodious meeting place. Waiting for you. So grey. It looks precisely how I feel within when without you. But this is where you wanted me and so here I am. A tap of your thumb and you reignite in me instantly that hunger. I stir just in time to see the very telling narrowing of your eyes – to see you covet your prized possession. The very thing you lust for on these cold nights: me. As you move nearer to me, it becomes even clearer that it’s been far too long.
Then there’s the cursed black Gucci Caiman attaché case that used to be your father’s. It looks like it must weigh a tonne what with the way your shoulders tense as you switch it off from one hand to the other. I marvel at the discipline you have to keep carrying it, to keep going back day after day. The only thing that feels heavier than it is the baggage that was brought along with it, I imagine. One of these days I’m going to destroy it and everything it contains. Why choose that albatross when you have me to disappear into? Wouldn’t you rather spend all your time lost with me? In me?
Jutting out that handsome jaw, your fingers are given full access to undo those frustratingly small buttons on your dress shirt’s collar. Your keys briefly disappear out of sight as the knot to your Brioni silk tie is pulled loose aided by a shift of your neck left and right. I can feel your eyes on me as your suit jacket is relegated to hang over the handle of your ventiquattrore. It’s time to roll up your sleeves and put me to work, Signore.
The first touch between us is always elettrico. I can know it’s coming and still I will sizzle from the sensation. When your skin meets the flawless, chilly surface of my Azzurro California layered clear coat, do you feel it too? I know I’m your favourite colour. You picked me because I remind you of the sea that surrounds the tropical getaway of your dreams. Do I comfort and warm you as much as you imagine the Caribbean waters would? Does the rush I give you restore you like those nurturing waves you long for? When we’re racing the wind, can you close your eyes and smell the distant sweet blend of salt and cocco? I want you to take me there. I want you to enjoy me along that beach some day.
Your stroke lingers over the high cut of my curvy hip before gliding down to skim against an impeccably flat stretch of my bodywork that has been conditioned by design to be both graceful and athletic. Your wrist turns and the contact shifts to the barely-there grazing of your middle finger’s knuckle along my beltline. It feels so good and you know it. Why don’t you come play for a little while? Put me through my paces and let me take your mind off those numbers and lines that confine you day after day. Just for a few hours, Capo. They won’t even know you’re gone. I’ll get you back on time. Ti prometto.
Your fingers curl under the handle and with the smallest of pulls I feel the most satisfying of pops. My Daytona-style trimmed leather gladly accepts the weight of your form as you settle in against the textured and drilled Nero upholstery. The voluptuousness of my considerable bolstering both supports and cradles you after an arduous start to your week. I can feel the change in you the instant your shoulders find their preferred place inside my embrace. That sigh is the only confirmation I need. It’s the one you make when you’re finally inside of me. A perfect fit, you and me. I possessively hold your body close after you draw that belt down over your torso, secured with a clear click of latchwork. You’re not going anywhere, not until I’m done with you.
You take a minute to lift your hand to the centre of your rib cage clasping what feels like my arm draped around you. Your eyes close and the back of your head gently falls against its cushioned rest with the logo stamped into it that I proudly bear. For a man so obsessed with time, you seem to enjoy testing how long you can revel in these moments with me while still having the strength to pull back. Don’t be mad at me if I want you all to myself. Can you really blame me?
There’s something about your key’s textured grip — the mix of the smooth engraved veneer of the prancing stallion in contrast to the surrounding coarse material — as it’s held between both your thumb and pointer finger. I can only imagine all the memories we have made from the sensations you’ve felt through those strong, but sensitive digits. In rolls the intrinsic wave of excitement as the carved metal strip rubs its ridges along the insides of my ignition’s tumbler. Don’t you love the way it feels going in? Would it really be all that bad if we never turned around? Just you and me on the open road. Bonnie and Clyde. Think of all the places you’ve wanted to have me. Stretch me, test me.
Confidence demands a willing foot to find its place on the drilled brake pedal that sets alight two circular crimson lamps. They are so artfully wrapped into the sculpted sheet metal of my muscular rear. Often you admire them when you think I’m not looking. You know what’s coming next: the magical twist. As if I were seeing you again for the first time, a celebration of colour dances across your face with electricity now flowing through me full stop. Switches, gauges, buttons, and displays come to life standing at attention. I look just as beautiful as I did the first time we met. The flutter in your chest and the affectionate glide of your palm against my steering wheel’s stitching all confirm this. We were made for each other.
The rekindled round pair along with a matching bar across the top where back glass meets roofline dim as the dissonant sound of the high pressure fuel injection readies the striking of the match. Brighter than ever, the illuminated set of three now blaze with the sudden arrival of my voice. For you, my chosen greeting is always a lustful moan that coyly winds down to a playful growl. Ahead, quad headlamps slice without hesitation through the still present darkness of night revealing our path. What was once a wall of porous white stone behind you now seemingly glimmers a supernatural shade of scarlet. Non posso vivere senza di te — I can’t live without you.
A flex of your ankle and you fan the flames burning inside my 5.7L twelve cylinder power plant mounted only a few feet ahead of your reach. Sprinting towards redline, the needle sails along the satin black tachometer passing by the large crisply printed numbers. It holds briefly midway between the seven and eight before collapsing back just as quickly. All five hundred and thirty-three horsepower at your mercy. Matching drumfire explodes out of my quad exhaust reverberating against the cement of the empty car park. The harsh blast ends with an intimidating crackle before settling down into what could almost be described as a purr of contentment. You know exactly how to bring me to the edge. I want you to do it again. You do holding it a little longer this time and I love you even more for it.
Your fingers affix securely around my steering wheel flexing your palms into my blemish-free leather. Can you feel the vibration of my pulse quicken beneath your touch? You’re in the driver’s seat now, which is right where you belong. It feels just as good as it did our first time alone together. I remember it. Do you? Oh, Caro, I know you do.
Bypassing the dial controlling the opaqueness of my electrochromic glass panel, a familiar finger curved over the raised switch situated to the side activating my roof’s motor. The smooth and graceful rotation brought it into an effortless flip down onto the rear deck aft of my cabin. With perfect timing of which only Mother Nature is capable, a pleasing yet brisk breeze skimmed the debossed ebony headrests and their contrasting white stitching ruffling your hair just slightly. Vulnerabili — anyone could see us. You couldn’t ever resist the temptation, could you?
The late Monday night has drifted now to somewhere in between damp and cool. Just another one of those exceptionally early February mornings soaked in ozone with drying tarmac available to be used and abused. Its soundtrack — a subtle symphony of clicking traffic signals, twittering katydids, and trilling crickets — is accompanied by a distant bass line thundering off shore over Hillsborough Bay. Fulgora and her light show aren’t going to stop us, are they? You know I can put on a show of my own that rivals all other goddesses.
Sitting there idling with you, our score is lacking the acrobatic and operatic vocals from our last encounter. The sounds I made when you lured me out and wound me up replay over and over in your head inching along the back of your neck like fingers itching to misbehave. Oh, how impaziente you make me. I want more. Make me sing for you again. Ora!
Pointer and middle fingers split to bend like mischievous bunny ears down around the polished t-bar shifter of my electrohydraulic six speed F1 box. If only you knew how good that feels. The muscles of your hand flex bringing the soft skin of your palm down against the bar. Another press of a leather sole to nudge loose a languid stretch of power from beneath the long and gently sloped sheet metal of my hood. I can sense my playful coos melting away your hesitation. You know you want to. Give in to me. Andiamo!
Off we go. Advancing forward, you engage my drivetrain fully letting those Pirelli P-Zero Corsas rotate with the nineteen inch five spoke wheels on which they are mounted. Coinciding with an obedient rumble, both glowing needles now leisurely sweep along their respective measurements as we glide out onto the deserted street together. Creeping up to the worn white markings of the asphalt, stillness returns while you admire me. I know what we have is special. Nobody can give you what I can. And for me, there is no one but you: my Owner, Padrone mio. Be gentle — or don’t.
Both sets of fingertips hover anticipatorily over the shifting paddles as you tighten your grip on me. With a firm hold, you brutally twist me to my limit constraining me to the forced submission of your command. Precisely when I think I can’t take another second, you unleash me. In a short lived frenetic scamper, I claw at the asphalt for traction so eager to please. And when those wheels finally catch, blood-pumping, heart-thumping, adrenaline-surging acceleration follows.
I will dissect the corners of your favourite back roads letting the rhythm of our dance roll through our bodies. You will find solace and comfort from the responsibilities you face every day with our relaxed coastal cruises. For you, I will run as hard, as fast, and as long as I can.
For you, and only for you.